


la alambrada sólo es un trozo de metal

by Lire_Casander



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Cold War, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, The author's ideas about Cold War sweep into the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: There's a fine line between what Alex is forced to do and what Alex thinks it's right, and he walks it every single day.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23
Collections: Time After Time: A Roswell New Mexico Alternate Era AU Event, there will always be an us (in every world in every story)





	la alambrada sólo es un trozo de metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoniaEarpHaught](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoniaEarpHaught/gifts).



> Written for the [Time After Time Event](https://alterarnm.tumblr.com/) over a Tumblr, **Day 4: 1900s**.
> 
> Prompt given by [fiona-glenanne-westen](https://fiona-glenanne-westen.tumblr.com/): **Cold war spies (Like 1970s, guns, Berlin wall, tradecraft)**
> 
> Title from _Libre_ by Nino Bravo. Beta'ed by [jocarthage](https://jocarthage.tumblr.com/).

**december, 1961 — starting in the middle**

Checkpoint Charlie is lonely on this cold December night, Alex notices as he remains in the shadows of one of the surrounding streets of Friedrichstraße, away from prying eyes. He leans against the nearest wall, lifting the lapels of his winter coat to cover his exposed neck with slightly trembling hands. He’s been waiting so long for tonight to happen, and although he can’t believe it’s already time for his little rendezvous, he can’t help the nerves piling up in his gut.

“Suck it up, Manes,” he mutters to himself in the solitude of the deserted street. He digs his dress shoes deeper into the snow, feeling the cold sweep through the material and soak his toes. He’s the one who’s eerily early to their date — even being always the control freak he’s become, after everything he’s lived through, he hadn’t even contemplated the fact that he could finish his duties way before the intended hour. And so here he is, soaking up in the snow that’s still falling three days after Christmas, in a lonely and cold German street while he waits.

Minutes pass slowly in his holed up place, blended against a wall, wearing an all-black outfit in order not to be spotted. The officers at this side of the Wall look as bored as he felt whenever he’d been on guard duty in that same post. Alex can’t blame them — apart from the occasional person braving their way through the barbed fence separating east from west, Alex had never been sent to a more annoying post in his whole military career. Maybe it was because he was so anxious to oversee the people crossing under the protection of the night, the stars their only guide towards a new future, but he never wanted to catch them. He’s always defended freedom in any form, and he’d be a hypocrite if he’d have aimed his gun to the people fighting for a chance to _live_.

He waits for what seems like hours, but itʼs probably only twenty minutes before his heightened senses take notice of movement in the street across from him. He tilts up his face, searching in the shadows, and heʼs rewarded with the sight of a mop of curls and a swagger that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but a cowboy. He smiles, warmth spreading throughout his body as the man reaches the crossroads and stops nonchalantly to light up a cigarette. Alex snickers — he knows no smoking will be held tonight, but he can recognize their signal even after ten years. The curly-haired man holds the cigarette in his left hand precariously, and looks up at the sky. Even if he canʼt see them, Alex knows the scars on that skin as if they were his — and, in a way, they are. 

The curly-haired man walks toward Checkpoint Charlie confidently, the cigarette still in between his fingers. Alex watches from the shadows as the man strolls almost leisurely before taking a turn and disappearing into one of the most narrow streets before the Wall. He waits for a bit longer, just not to lift any suspicions, before following the same path and getting lost in the shadows without a single glance spared to the guardhouse in the middle of the street. Alex tiptoes his way through the darkness, under the snow that’s starting to fall harder on them, one hand tracing the bricks on the old buildings at his right as he wades through the street, far enough that he’s swallowed by darkness soon after stepping in the alley. He comes to a halt, catches his breath, and feels two hands grabbing him by his coat.

He doesn’t fight back when he’s thrown against a wall and those hands start roaming through his body, searching, fiddling, digging. 

“How much I’ve missed you,” he whispers against lips dried in the cold, chasing the warmth of a kiss ten years in the making.

“Feeling’s mutual, Private,” comes the breathy reply as a full body covers his, making him melt in the freezing hours of the night.

“Still not the Army,” he laughs in between kisses, brain-addled with the need to feel _more_.

“Still a little shit, I see,” the other man counteracts, kissing Alex more firmly. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Alex suggests, gripping the other man’s and turning them around so he’s the one in charge now. “Same place?”

“Nothing changes in Berlin.”

They stumble through the streets until they reach their final destination, a small hotel far enough from the Wall that not one single military man in the area could find them. Alex hasn’t felt this free in years — his hand in another man’s hand, entwined fingers as they cross the threshold and nod to the receptionist. Alex hasn’t felt this happy ever since he was seventeen and full of life, finding love for the first time in the arms of someone who, unfortunately, wasn’t of his father’s liking.

They fall onto the bed in a tangled heap of limbs and legs, of laughter and lust, forgetting about the world outside. 

When they come out again, the sun’s already rising, its light gleaming against the atrocities of a planet that’s slowly dying under the hands of men like them.

Alex has his hands threading through curls, waiting for the other man to wake up.

“I see you’re already awake,” he hears.

“Not everyone’s Sleeping Beauty, Guerin,” he jokes. Guerin shakes his head, laughing, his movement rumbling through Alex’s body, and lifts a hand until he places it over Alex’s heart. “I still don’t know how you managed to make it through the system enough to land in this position.”

“Underneath you?” Guerin sits up a little, winking lewdly at him. “I can explain the mechanisms but I’m sure you’re familiar with the motions.”

“Guerin!” Alex shoves him playfully in the chest before settling back beside Guerin. “Are you up for breakfast?”

“Oh, love, I’m up for much _more_ ,” Guerin continues, his hand traveling down from Alex’s chest to his navel and below. “And I can feel you’re up for that, too.”

Alex can’t deny Guerin anything, so he just follows when Guerin chooses to slide down the bed. 

**august, 1962 — eight months later**

Checkpoint Charlie isn’t that lonely on this bright summer morning as it was last winter, Alex notices when he approaches the place. A bunch of foreign journalists are piling next to the guard office, taking notes and asking questions about how life guarding a Wall is these days, with the political tension spiking every now and then. There are a few neighbors walking around, running errands, holding grocery bags or walking their dogs.

Life at this side of the Wall looks easy on the outside. 

Alex is waiting once again by the sidewalk, observing. He’s here once again for work, not for pleasure, but he can’t stop himself from checking out the crowd. Not a sign of curls among the people surrounding Checkpoint Charlie this time. He sighs and rolls up a cigarette, even if it’s not his intention to actually smoke — he needs it to remain tethered to the ground, focused on his goal. The crowd is loud enough for him to wish for silence.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he hears at his back, making him jump and almost crawl out of his own skin. When he turns, he sees familiar curls caressing a forehead he’s showered in kisses not even a year ago. “What brings you to West Berlin, private?”

“Nothing you should care about,” Alex replies, steel in his voice, even though deep inside he’s screaming his lungs out. _Why’s Guerin in West Berlin?_

“Don’t look like it to me, Private,”

“Still not a private, Guerin.”

He has yet to understand why an American secret agent working in tandem with the British Secret Service is hanging around Berlin West the same day Alex has to meet with one of his confidants to tie up a few issues. But he can’t let Guerin get under his skin, not today of all days. He needs to be focused, he needs to be at his best. Not that he isn’t when he’s with Guerin — it’s a different kind of _best_ , and not one that can help him achieve his work goals. Not when his work goals entail torturing people to keep secrets out of the streets.

“Care to share?”

“I said it’s none of your business,” he insists, firmly, with a finality that pains him to use.

Alex remembers clearly the first time he saw Michael Guerin after the events that separated them for what seemed like an eternity when they were both seventeen. He was strolling through CIA headquarters back in the States, minding his own business, when he’d run into a sturdy, flesh wall in the middle of the hallway. He’d looked up, huffing, ready to confront someone for interfering in his path, when he’d been sucked into the honey-colored world of those eyes that, even so many years later, could still hold him in place and make him believe he could fly.

They had been spies together, learning the intricacies of a changing world after a devastating war that had killed off everyone’s futures and hopes. They had grown together. They had learned together. And when the time had finally come for them to go out in that world and work with what they knew, Jesse Manes had stepped into his own son’s life and had prevented him to join a special task force of both British and American intelligence workers that wanted to help restore faith in humanity. Jesse Manes had sent his own son to a failing operation where he’d lost much more than his right leg — a loss Alex is still mourning. Alex had lost his dignity and his credibility, and he’d been tied to a desk for the following years, working for others instead of making himself a name out of his own skills.

What had started with them being part of the same team working against a KGB conspiracy to crack through some American intel had taken a sour turn to the left when Michael had chosen to be part of a well-trained, high-level-security Special Ops team, leaving Alex behind because of his injury. Alex had blamed it on his own father’s intervention, but deep inside he still held a grudge against Michael for having left him behind.

Jesse’s death at the beginning of 1961, and his burial — under heavy rain back in their hometown, a small place in the middle of the desert in New Mexico — had made Alex understand that he would be free of his father’s restraints. It had helped Alex find his own path and learn to win his own battles.

Those battles have led him to West Berlin, to the maze that the Alliance has become in the midst of a space war that no one knows how or when will end, even who might win it. As though the world wasn’t tired of fighting. As if the world has yet to learn that death isn’t the solution to dissonance.

Those battles have led him back to Michael Guerin, even if now they’re part of different worlds.

Whatever Guerin’s about to retaliate gets lost in the sudden rise of voices coming from the group of journalists crowding Checkpoint Charlie. Alex dismisses Guerin with a wave of his hand and steps out of the shadows, knowing the other man is following closely, and glances toward the Wall, where the guards from the other side are also yelling.

“Stop right now! Stop!”

Alex can see two young boys — they can’t be older than seventeen or eighteen — who reminds him of himself when he was their age. Both are running from East Berlin, making a beeline for the Wall, for the spot where Checkpoint Charlie stands as the last frontier between worlds. The taller one is skidding, gravel and stones underneath his used soles making him trip slightly. The smaller one — the one more Alex’s size — is panting, clutching at his sides as he tries to catch his breath while never stopping running. They’re escaping their fate from one hell to another, from one poverty ghetto to another — and Alex can’t do anything but watch in rapt horror as the officers from the other side aim their firearms and fire. Guerin grabs his arm right below the elbow, grounding him as they witness the scene unfolding before their eyes.

The taller boy rushes past the border and comes to halt right beside Checkpoint Charlie, resting his head against the nearest wall now that he’s officially in West Berlin. Alex’s eyes, however, are trained to the smaller boy, the one who doesn’t seem to be hearing the East Berlin guards yelling at him to stop. Alex feels dread blooming in him.

The gunshots catch him by surprise, even though he’s been expecting them.

They’re three, one after the other, hitting their target easily, cutting through him like a knife would cut through butter. And the boy falls to the ground, barely shy of the border, crimson flowers sprouting from his chest, blood spilling from his mouth.

He lies on the floor, unmoving for a second. Alex can’t stop looking at him as he spasms, twitching on his spot and crying for help. It takes him a moment to realize that other voices have joined him in his plea for aid — the journalists, the bystanders, even the West Berlin guards are shouting for someone to step in and stop the bleeding, put an end to the misery.

A minute passes. 

Five minutes tick by. 

And time bleeds out just like the young boy on the ground, painfully, slowly, while everyone keeps talking and nobody moves a muscle.

For an hour, no one’s brave enough to do anything.

For an hour, Alex remains glued to the floor, Guerin’s hand on his arm, unable to move because it’s not his quest. This is not his task today — today he’s here to recollect some data and tie some loose ends. 

For an hour, Alex hates himself for not being able to override his training and just be human.

The boy stops moving after sixty-four minutes, and Alex understands he’s dead.

Relief floods through him, and he hates himself even more.

He steps away, untangling himself from Michael Guerin, and starts walking in the opposite direction of the Wall. His mind has completely forgotten about his confidants, about his goal. He just wants to go _home_.

“Alex!” he hears at his back, but he just keeps walking forward. When he reaches the farthest corner of the alleyway they were standing in, he doesn’t hear anything that’s not his frantic heartbeat fighting to escape his chest.

The streets merge with each other as he rushes back to the place where he came from, and not for a single moment does he hear a second set of footsteps following him. Alex feels, deep inside his soul, that he’s fleeing alone, that Michael isn’t coming along this time — this time it’s Alex moving forward, and Michael being left behind, in a sarcastic role swap from their fallout after Alex’s injury. Once again, he’s all alone in this new quest he’s set for himself, without even noticing.

He doesn’t dare to look back — he doesn’t want confirmation of his worst suspicions. He doesn’t want to learn that he’s left his heart behind as he runs away from the most sordid aspects of his life.

He didn’t sign up for this. He signed up to make the world a better place, not to kill innocent children seeking freedom. He didn’t sign up for murder.

He didn’t want this burden, so he keeps walking, and doesn’t stop until he can’t feel his foot any longer.

He doesn’t see Michael Guerin again afterwards.

**december, 1962 — the beginning of the end**

They learn the boy’s name was Peter Fechter. They learn that he was eighteen. They learn that he only wanted to be free.

Alex will never forget that date. August 6th, 1962. The digits are etched in his soul, stretching through the seams of his conscience when he sleeps, hovering over his head when he works.

He feels like he’s drowning every single second he’s awake.

It takes him four months to resign. He adduces that his leg is giving him pain, that he can’t function properly, that he’s not fit for active duty any longer. He hates using his father in his own benefit — he hates having to feign that he agrees with the lies his father told about him. He manages to snatch a desk in Washington, away from everything he knows, for a new beginning.

He finds out Guerin went rogue a little after summer, in the middle of an operation gone awry. He discovers no one has seen or heard of him in months, and his heart hurts for the man who’s fallen off the grid. He knows what that could mean, in their line of work — a misguided shot, a misstep, a mistaken turn of events. He doesn’t hear it from Guerin himself, though — after the panic had settled in his gut, Alex had cut off all communications with his former life, deciding that his field days were over, and not wanting to know anything about the man who wasn’t brave enough to run after him.

Even though he still feels betrayed, for Guerin never followed him, he can’t help but mourn the loss of what could have been once.

He goes through his days as though he’s on automatic. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t _want_ to. He’s done enough thinking to last him a lifetime. He’s seen enough horrors to live in his nightmares until the day he dies.

He’s only living in halves instead of enjoying his existence fully.

And then, three days after Christmas, a white envelope reaches his desk first thing in the morning. The scrawl in the front is so familiar that it springs tears to Alex’s eyes — he’s brought back to an easier time, to a moment in his life when love was the only thing that could fill his soul, to a place where he wasn’t a sinner. The two letters warm his heart in a way he hasn’t known he needed.

 _AM_.

He opens the envelope hastily, and a sheet lands on his lap with a small flowing movement. Alex picks it up and reads the five words written on it.

 _Meet me where everything started_.

And so he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts & other stuff to help you understand the storyline:
> 
> * Peter Fechter is the name of the boy who really died in 1962 at 18 for crossing the wall through Checkpoint Charlie. It's a fact that you can check. he was trying to cross with a friend; said friend made it through, but Peter died after lying on the floor, in the open, for an hour before bleeding out.
> 
> * Title translation: _the barb wire fence is just a piece of metal_. The song’s said to be inspired by Peter Fechter's death.


End file.
